We Are All One For Christ
by EverythingCounts
Summary: In which Jesus is summoned by a ninja to a post-apocalytpic all-girls school to aid her restore it to its former glory. Includes a sexy Italian, a ninja heroine, Jesus Son of God and an all star supporting cast who are quite probably all bonkers.  CRACK
1. Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?

**Disclaimer**: Any resemblance to real people or events in this piece is purely coincidental and we formally apologise if there are any such occurrences.

Unless you specifically asked to be in this, in which case it probably is you.

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**Chapter One—Where have all the cowboys gone?**

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Wasteland.

What had once been a living, thriving place of knowledge and torture (often simultaneously) was now divided, split into rival factions spread across the site. It was barred to the outside world, locked in its own, secret space, leaving those inside to plot revenge, escape and drag themselves on to keep alive.

Things that had once been people—although, teachers, so not quite proper people—became… not quite people. These people were technically not people in the first place, but over time became even less people, so much not people that the other people were really quite afraid of them. People in general retreated to one building, one curved building that was safe to hide from these other not really people. People fought other people. This was bad.

Time passed, and the people's hearts became weary having to spend all their living waking moments in a place that had been previously somewhere they came to attempt learning, and mainly fall asleep. The cafeteria shut down, unable to cope with the vicious demands of teenage girls every month, and the servers (including Marcus/Marek, they never agree on his name. The _tag _says Marek; you can't just call him Marcus. It's _silly_) went into hiding, rumoured to be lurking in the staff room, which was now supposedly barren and abandoned, the coffee machines dripping to nobody. (Also, unrelatedly, the supply of pads ran out in the slightly smelly toilets, which became smellier, even as girls came up with increasingly ingenious methods to deal with… girl stuff. There's only so much toilet paper.)

The garden patch became of massive importance, and so was guarded 24/7 by one particular not people person, a vicious mermaid with a fetish for colours who would eat anyone who got too close. Her ginger hair was the substance of many a horror story told around burning copies of _The Lord of the Flies_ and _Kensuke's Kingdom_.

The top floor of the Tower Block became the domain of another fearsome consumer of human flesh, an impressively spherical woman who had quickly fallen into the progress of cannibalism, and found a certain relish in demanding about homework as she munched on femurs. There were rumours that a wise woman lived on the floor below her, and was in constant (non-violent) battle with her. It was told that this wise woman held the secret of how to save the Wasteland, but this isn't about prophecies, which are crap, so nobody bothered to go ask. They're always bad news, the characters always try to stop them, then making them come true; prophecies are really ridiculously predictable.

So we're not having any. None!

So instead this wise woman kept the prophecies to herself and her companion Anna the giant (who was just the right height for talking to her through the window of the third floor) and just gave advice to anyone who happened to walk past. Some people found this rather useful, others simply found it depressing. Nobody knew how she got food. Perhaps it was magical. She was a hermit, after all. They're quite magical. No? A little bit?

The languages and science block were ruled respectively by a deadly rogue language teacher who turned to sorcery early on in the developing wasteland to turn a fellow deadly teacher into a dragon that would do her bidding. They were ferocious together, and no woman could defeat them.

But there was a group more deadly, more ferocious, more _evil_.

They were… Ronald the (slightly dodgy) PE teacher, and his crack squad of PE department assassins (including those student teachers who never tell you their name and just kind of sit there quietly the whole time).

The rest of the school lived in the curved building, praying for deliverance. But not all of them simply prayed. One girl in particular decided to take matters into her own hands, and summon the greatest of them all, the most fabulous of them, the goodest (is that a word?) of them all.

Jesus.

It's Parousia time, **bitch**.

* * *

Drenched in blood, Ayesha the ninja stood in the middle of a pentagon amidst the various organs and bodily fluids from numerous slaughtered animals. Reciting the ancient words of power she half closed her eyes and bit the tip of her thumb, smearing the blood to cover her palm

"Kuchiyosu no Jutsu!" She finished, slamming her hand down on the ground and completing the summoning. Flames the colour of blood sprung up around the edges of the pentagon and within the centre a beautiful white fire glowed. Somewhere, a small baby Chihuahua was screaming in agony with its paw trapped in a cat flap.

"Oh it hurts, but it hurts so _good_." A moan of pleasure came from within the fire. Ayesha squinted her eyes against the light as a figure emerged, clad in clothes as white as the fire.

"Are you the Lord Jesus?" she asked tentatively, somewhat shyly as His striking face and masculine muscles became distinguishable. Her words seemed to distract Him from the flames.

"That I am, my _child_"—a hint of lust flaring into His voice at the words 'child'—"and why have you summoned me?"

She took a deep breath, mustering her courage and swallowing her nervousness. "It will be far easier to show you, my Lord," she decided after a while, at a loss for words. He smiled at her and her heart beat faster. There was something about Him, something undeniably _good_ about Him, and not just the way the tight muscles of His arms strained against His sleeves, or the way the wind played with His luscious hair or His deep, intoxicatingly masculine voice; or even the way His tight leather trousers strained against His—

After a short time she realised she'd been staring at Him and averted her gaze, blushing like a pool of ninja blood on an omniscient lake at midnight of the secret place in the bushes and stuttering out an almost incoherent stream of what might be loosely described as words, "Ahmfd...I-I mean, I, uh...yeah...w-would you like to, ah, um, ya know? F-follow me? S-sso I can, uh, show you, the erm, school? And, er, its condition?" Smooth. Very smooth.

Luckily for our ninja heroine, her trusty and incredibly suave Italian mentor came to her rescue, arriving with an Italian pelvis whack to the back of Ayesha's head that quite literally knocked her back to her senses. And some stars, too, but she ignored them.

"Hello Jesus," Berlusconi greeted the Lord, twirling his distinctively Italian looking moustache and releasing ripples of his Italian sexiness. "Long time no see… It's been a while since we—"

"Hello there. It has been a while," Jesus replied with a wink and a smile that sent sparks of jealously through Ayesha. "You've still got that funny accent, can't place it, nearly—Transylvanian?"

Ayesha interrupted as Berlusconi cowered away. "We don't talk about that."

"What's so bad about-?"

"ANYWAY," Berlusconi interrupted, twirling his Italian moustache steadily more upsetly. "I came to help Ayesha, like always."

"Oh, great," Ayesha said, clearly very, very happy. "You're about as helpful as Jayne. Jayne the _incompetent prophet_." A poof of smoke went up. "Wait, I didn't mean it—too late."

"Did someone call me?" Jayne announced, giggling away to herself. "For in times of trouble just remember that life is like a languid lemur, needing nothing yet lacking all."

With that, she disappeared in a rain of what probably should have been glitter; but as this was Jayne, it was instead a collection small, slightly perplexed insects who had been unknowingly conscripted to welcome Jesus.

"And how the hell does that help me at all!" Ayesha muttered.

"Well, you did call her," Berlusconi pointed out, absent mindedly pulling up his Italian shirt halfway to let Jesus see his Italian muscles, being suave as always. Restraining the temptation to murder her supposedly helpful (Italian) mentor because she was sure Jesus was meant to be a pacifist, she took a deep breath and conquered her anger. Turning to the others with a forcibly polite smile on her face she said,

"If you're going to be here, at least be helpful, help me fill Jesus in on our predicament."

"Ah! Of course… How rude of me," Berlusconi said in shame, taking Jesus' hand lightly and leading Him away. "Let me give you the tour." A knee met his back and he choked slightly, turning to glare at Ayesha, who was staring off in another direction and whistling coolly. "Or, correction—let _us_ give you the tour. Happy?" he hissed in a lower voice to Ayesha. She looked innocently at him, and simply moved off.

"Right now," she announced happily, trying not to look at Jesus as to retain her eyesight, "we're in the curved building. Most of the school is off-limits."

Jesus looked around, clearly flabbergasted at the state of the school.

"An all-girls school," Ayesha added, and He nodded understandingly. Then He looked at Berlusconi, who looked back with a questioning Italian smile.

"What are you doing in an all-girls school, my little Italian muffin?" He asked, running His hand through His long, luscious locks. "This is the _last_ place I would have expected to find you."

"Would you believe me if I said I was branching out?"

There was silence.

"No? Not even a little bit? Some girls can be quite attractive, maybe I've broadened my interests—"

"ANYWAY," Ayesha interrupted, in a way not at all reminiscent of her sexy mentor, "the tour?"

"Of course, _ma cherie_."

She beckoned to Jesus to follow her. "That, over there, is the tower block. The staff room on the second floor is out of bounds, we think the cafeteria staff has barricaded it. The third floor is home to a wise old hermit, don't listen to her, she just says prophecies all the time. She has a friend called Anna who's on her level, don't be surprised and don't mention how tall she is. They get along really well together, no-one knows why." They walked as she talked, gesturing to each place she mentioned. "The top of the tower block is home to a cannibal, we don't go there. The language and science blocks too, they're those bits connected there. There's a sorceress and a dragon in them. The garden patch as well, it's guarded by a ferocious mermaid. Don't start talking to her, whatever you do."

"What're you lot doing roaming around here after hours?" a rough voice called down the hall, speaking of toughness, leaderly qualities and probably a very stout pair of boots.

"What?" the group said as one, cupping their hands to their ears and leaning forwards.

A figure stepped forward majestically into the light, requiring a dramatic chord from an orchestra (if you have no orchestra, please YouTube something appropriate). Her long blonde hair gleamed healthily in the hall light, swinging around her shoulders with a grace that needed sound effects; her bright eyes stared at them with a look that was 90% toughness and 10% pure intelligence and her jaw was set in a confident, strong line. Her uniform was ripped and stained, showing someone who played hard, worked hard and wasn't afraid to get down and dirty. She wore a leather jacket over the top of her school jumper and a pair of sunglasses nestled in her hair.

She pushed them down and pointed vicious looking pistols at them, one in either hand.

"State your name and purpose, suckers."

Jesus coughed. Berlusconi stared at the wall, attempting to whistle and failing. Ayesha sneezed. She had been about to cough, but Jesus had done that and for fear of copying she had chosen another route.

"Bless you," the new arrival said obligingly, offering her a pristine tissue from her leather jacket. It had guns embroidered delicately around the edge.

"What?"

"Bless you."

"What?"

"Bless you."

"No, really, I can't understand you. Where's your translator, Hannah?"

Hannah's strong face fell for a moment and she sighed, tucking her twin pistols into two customised holders on her leather jacket. Ayesha felt the need to explain as she wandered off in search of her translator, leaning back to Jesus. "Hannah is the leader of the resistance," she whispered, "and she's the best thing to happen to it. But…"—she looked around to check if Hannah could hear them—"she comes from _oop north_. No-one can understand her! We're all southern. We're about an hour away from London, we can't understand northerners! She's from _Yorkshire_."

A helpful Year 7 was produced to translate. "She says bless you," she informed them, then wandered away, her bandana waving jauntily on her head.

"Well, we've got to give Jesus the tour, Hannah, we might be back later. See ya."

"Bye."

"Can't understand you!"

They moved on, passing classroom after classroom full of noisy, rambunctious girls of all years, although of course the Year 7s were segregated to their own classroom and not allowed to mix with the others for fear of infection. The sixth formers had commandeered the corridors and demanded tolls, although with one look at Berlusconi twirling his sexy Italian moustache, they fell into dead faints.

"Ah! Jenna!" Ayesha called, evidently spotting someone that she knew.

A girl ahead of them in the corridor turned around to them, her eyes oddly unfocused. "_Hello_," she said, "how are **you**? **I am feeling** _quite good today_. How _are_ **you?**"

"You poor child," Jesus said, something soft in His eyes. "What is wrong with you?"

"MY **LORD**," she cried, falling to her feet at once. "_But I _don't **have the **myrrh, _or the frankincense_, or even any **gold**!"

"You…," Jesus gasped. "You—but it can't be!"

"Yes," Ayesha said, with great gravitas. "Jenna has a unique condition. Inside her head, she contains all three wise men. Jenna is also in there somewhere, but we're not entirely sure where."

Jenna's head twitched sideways and she gasped, then raising her head. "_My lord, I have managed to take over. I am the second wise man—I am Jeff. If you'll just give me a couple of days, I could spread the world about your second coming and I'm sure I could find some frankincense. I know you liked that gift the most_." Her head twitched again and she let out a shrill scream, then averting her head. "**My lord, I am the first wise man, Al. Don't listen to Jeff. I know you liked the gold. You always had a liking for the bling, my lord, if I may say so, and it was a lovely accessory, really went with your skin—**" In a now familiar way, Jenna shook all over, her head twitching manically, and then spoke. "Don't listen to Jeff or Al, my lord! I am the third wise man, Gertrude. I know you liked the myrrh, they told me all babies love myrrh."

Jesus paused diplomatically before replying, "I liked all of them, Gertrude. I liked all of them equally."

"Call me Gertie."

"Gertie. I liked all of them equally."

Ayesha cleared her throat. "Are we moving along?"

"Oh. Oh yes. Sure. Sorry. It's just nice to meet people from my past, you know."

Someone ran out of a doorway ahead of them, a blonde wig askance on their head, an ill-fitting jacket patched together out of what looked like dark plywood swinging around their thin form. They tripped over their wellies and sprawled into the corridor, the wig falling off. A water pistol flew out from their blazer pocket and bashed against the window, leaking across the floor.

After a dumbfounded moment of watching, those present blinked in unison.

The figure got to their feet, shouting curses in the direction of the classroom that they had just left, adjusting their wig. "SCREW YOU ALL," they shouted in an accent that no-one could quite place.

"Jamaican?" Berlusconi volunteered.

"I heard a bit of Welsh in there, I'm sure," Ayesha muttered thoughtfully.

The figure wheeled to face them, pointing to themself enthusiastically. "I'm leader of the resistance," they announced proudly, "I'm _northern_."

"Right now you're South African," Ayesha observed clinically. "And no you're not."

"I am too. I've got the outfit and everything."

"Eh," Ayesha said, tilting her head to one side to examine her. "Not exactly."

"Well, it's hard to get the proper resources in here! I'm doing my best."

"Points for effort?" Berlusconi offered helpfully. Ayesha thumped him.

"Don't encourage her. She'll dress up as anything."

"Hey, well at least I make this look good."

"Okay… you just keep on doing what you're doing. We're off."

"I'm leader of the resistance, you should show some more respect!"

"You're a loony."

They walked on outside, to walk around the school and show Jesus everything. He took it all in appreciatively, nodding at the extra facts they gave Him. By the time they had reached the field—carefully avoiding the sports hall, which was another place where nobody went, He was looking around as if He had been there since Year 7 with the rest of them, excepting people who moved to the school after Year 7 –God only knows why they'd chosen to move to _this_ school.

He pointed to a distant figure in the far off distance, walking around distantly and serenely, surrounded by distant white blobs. "Who is that?"

Ayesha shaded her eyes, staring in the direction He had pointed. "Ah, that's Evie. She is a shepherdess, and that's her flock. Nobody knows where she got the sheep from or why she has them, she just does. And nobody is allowed to eat them." She leaned in, beckoning to Him. "The last person who tried to steal one, they never found them," she confided. "Don't mess with Evie. Her sheep aren't ordinary sheep."

Jesus nodded, absorbing this.

"Is that the tour?" he asked.

Berlusconi gasped, snapping his Italian fingers and flashing a bright Italian smile at Jesus. "Oh! How could I have forgotten—there's someone you _must_ meet, _mein liebling_." Jesus looked at Ayesha, who shrugged. Taking a deep breath, Berlusconi let out an ear splitting yodel, spinning around in a circle and dancing up and down to add to this.

A shape began to become clear in the hazy horizon, a shape of pure rainbow brilliance that approached ever closer. A whinny echoed around and a pure pink light imbued with glitter and joy surrounded them.

"This," Berlusconi announced majestically, "is Judith, _mi querida_. My familiar."

Judith the sparkly rainbow unicorn neighed in agreement as he gave her a hug.

Ayesha stared on. "Your familiar… is a unicorn." Berlusconi nodded, patting her flowing mane proudly as it rippled despite the fact that there was no wind. It released tiny, happy fairies as it blew.

She smacked her own forehead. "Why am I not surprised?" She looked over to Jesus, who simply shrugged.

"What do _you_ have for a familiar?" Berlusconi sniped, noticing her disbelieving expression.

"I—"

"You don't _have _a familiar, _do_ you?" he asked, putting his hands on his hips. Judith neighed in agreement.

"Well, no—"

"So don't knock it til you've tried it, then. I happen to be very pleased with my unicorn familiar, so you can go—" He paused.

"What?"

"No."

"_What_?"

"It's nothing. Nothing."

"No, you've said it now, you can't just not tell me."

"Double negative."

"Shut up."

"So you don't want me to tell you, then?"

"Yes!"

"Well, you're not acting like you do."

"Just shut up and tell me!"

"I can't tell you if I'm shutting up, can I—what are you doing? No! Stop it. Get away from me! Ah, god!" Several minutes later they both stared disconsolately off into space, Ayesha having been gored by a unicorn and Berlusconi dented in several places by an unnamed weapon. He rubbed a particularly vicious one in his Italian cheekbones.

"I've forgotten what I was going to say now."

Ayesha made a disgusted noise. "Never mind then."

"You know, as a rule, I generally dislike fighting, but that was actually quite amusing.' Jesus admitted, smiling and nodding His head somewhat smugly. At that moment, due to their dangerous proximity to the Sports hall, they were spotted by _him. _The ultimate in slightly dodgy Welsh-P.E teacher evilness; Ronald. Spotting potential victims to subjugate to the terror of P.E detentions—namely, having to tidy up the smelly shoe locker—he strode over to the group.

"Oh dear, here comes serious trouble," Ayesha decided, readying several shurikens, knives and other bladed weapons in preparation to defend her currently free lunchtimes. Unfortunately for our heroine, Ronald—upon noticing Jesus' generously bulging leather trousers—had his eyes set on a different prize.

"Hello," he said, casually performing a few pelvic thrusts in Jesus' direction.

"Be careful Jesus, this is Ronald, he's a rugby fan, so he's not afraid to get a bit dirty," she whispered urgently.

"Oh, really? That definitely sounds promising." Jesus' words were accompanied with a casual tossing of His thick, glossy hair and a seductive smile. Ayesha, appalled at the interpretation of her warning and the non-too-subtle hints Ronald and Jesus were sending each other, quickly stepped between the two.

"Hello Ronald," she started, grimacing menacingly and drawing her Katana, "I'm afraid Jesus is busy at the moment, with me."

"Is that so? And what gave you the right to occupy his time?"

"I'm the one who summoned him here!"

"So? Maybe he doesn't want to be with you? Maybe he'd much rather I..._entertain_ him for a while." At this he sent Jesus a playful wink.

"You think so do you? I'm pretty sure I can entertain him plenty; being a ninja I have very good stamina so I can keep going for hours and I am rather… flexible." She dropped down into the splits easily to demonstrate her point. Smiling up at Jesus, whose attention was instantly drawn back to her, she slowly got to her feet, "accidentally" grinding her hips against him in the process.

"Humph!" Ronald interrupted, going his signature shade of red, "I think Jesus should decide who gets to keep him occupied." As one, the whole group turned to Jesus, each attempting their own seduction techniques; Ronald tilted his pelvis invitingly, Ayesha stretched her arms upwards to display her curvaceous figure (lolololol as if Ayesha, you're tiny. I'm the one with the bodacious bod –Sophi) and even Berlusconi subconsciously ripped open his shirt and ran his hands over his impressive Italian muscles absent mindedly.

"Gangbang?" Jesus offered, looking more than a little bit hopeful.

"I refuse to share you with that abomination of nature!" Ronald declared.

"Do not call anything an abomination that the Lord has made pure," Jesus said reproachfully.

"What about a competition to win your heart then?" Ronald suggested,

"That sounds like a brilliant idea," Jesus mused. "There will be three competitions to win over the three parts of me; the Son, the Father and the Holy Spirit. The first shall have to be a dance-off, for I am the Lord of the Dance." Ayesha cursed mentally. She couldn't dance to save her life—or the love of her life, it appeared, haw haw haw.

"Fine by me," Ronald announced.

"Then it's fine by me too," Ayesha decided, perhaps a tad hastily in her determination not to be out-done by the short Welshman.

"Good, it is settled! The first competition will begin during period F on Friday in the Courtyard!" That only gave Ayesha until the end of the week to learn how to dance! "For now I shall depart, but do not worry, when you arrive in the Courtyard I'll re-appear, for when two or more of you gather in my name, I shall be there." With that He disappeared in a cloud of blinding light –if you're thinking clouds of blinding light are improbable shut up, this is Jesus. Miracles? Son of God, ultimate hacker? Live with it.

"See you Friday," Ronald said confidently before swaggering off. Sinking to her knees in despair Ayesha cursed the world and threw various pointy objects at the innocent animals of the school field to subdue her anger. She did avoid the sheep, though, that was more than her life was worth.

"There, there," Berlusconi soothed from a safe distance, behind a nearby tree, using his unicorn as a shield just in case "Don't worry, I can teach you how to dance," he offered, "At the disco back in Transyl-you know where, I was quite famous for my moves." Faced with this unpromising prospect, inspiration suddenly struck our heroine, in the form of blood from a pigeon that she'd hit splattering her face.

"Or I could just kill that Ronald bastard?"

"Yes, there's always that option." Berlusconi admitted, somewhat reluctantly seeing as he wouldn't have a chance to show off his groovy moves. However, just at that moment, and as usual appearing at the time when she was least wanted, Jayne the Prophet (not profit) manifested.

"_Attacking Ronald is not recommended,_

_ or else by his P.E assassins you shall be apprehended!_"

"Bring it on, I can take them!" But Jayne was not to be so easily detained.

_"I bid you not take them too lightly,_

_ or else they'll ensure your demise is rather unsightly._

_ If you want to complete your mission, _

_ the best bet is the competition._

_ You must learn to dance, _

_ so through the stages you can advance, _

_ and fulfilled will be your ambition."_

By the end of this Jayne was looking immensely pleased with herself at managing to just about stick to a set rhyming pattern with her prophecy. After delivering her full wisdom on the matter of Ronald and his P.E assassins, she promptly disappeared in her normal shower of insects.

"Ambition doesn't fit the rhyme scheme, although OKAY FINE IT RHYMES WITH COMPETITION," someone muttered, although on closer examination the only person it could have been was the unicorn, which was unlikely even in a story of this calibre. "And I thought we said we weren't having any prophecies on page one. Screw you guys."

"Seriously?" Ayesha groaned, carefully ignoring the nothing that had not just been spoken by someone who was not there. "Alright then, fine; you can teach me how to dance," she relented eventually. Berlusconi stepped out from behind both the tree and his unicorn familiar and proceed to laugh in a magnificently sexy, Italian way.

"I shall teach you how to dance! And you shall go to the ball!" He danced away majestically, pirouetting like a born ballerina. Resisting the urge to face-palm, Ayesha followed him unenthusiastically.


	2. Personal Jesus

In which PROFANITY SWEARING THERE ARE BAD WORDS if you have a delicate constitution LOOK AWAY there will be Chris Isaak and ENCHILADAS (not the happy variety)! Ayesha gets creative with punctuation and I have to spend half an hour proofing her bit. WHY WITH THE SPEECH MARKS, WHY. Also, the fourth wall pretty much ceases to exist.

P.S. we recommend you listen to Soccer Practice and Tight Pants/ Body Rolls while reading.

P.P.S. you can tell when Ayesha's written a section because it inevitably involves grinding and/or pelvises. We're seeking therapy.

* * *

**Chapter Two—Personal Jesus**

* * *

"Reach, deep down into your subconscious. Transcend the gap between your waking and sleeping mind—find the deepest, darkest regions of your own brain. Scrape the sludge from the bottom of the cranial bucket and sieve it through the colander of your finely honed thoughts. _Become_ the subconscious, become the power hidden in your mind. I would tell you to unlock the 90% of your brain that you don't use, but that's a ridiculous myth."

Ayesha opened her right eye a crack from the lotus position she had been placed in. "You were doing okay up until sludge. And don't break the mood."

Berlusconi cleared his Italian throat and nodded. "Sorry. Anyway. Sink back down into the level where you're transcending and everything. Now, visualise your surroundings as a room."

"What kind of room?"

"I don't care. Just a room. Room-shaped. It can have any attributes you want. Now, imagine your self steps out of a door in front of you."

"I wasn't facing a door."

"Well, then, change the room."

"It was my bedroom. I'm not changing it. Where I'm sitting, there is no door in front of me. I'll have to come through the window."

"Alright, look, you can come through the window."

"It's locked."

"Then unlock it! Stop being difficult! Do you _want_ to unlock your potential or not?"

"I didn't realise it was going to require scraping brain sludge!"

"That was a metaphor, cretin!"

They sat in silence for a while. Berlusconi had produced some Italian food from no particular place and proceeded to eat it, munching filling the irate atmosphere. Ayesha turned to him. "Gimme some." He held it aloft aloofly.

"No. Should have brought your own. Anyway, you're on a strict diet between now and the competition, champ."

Struck between annoyance at being denied food and the fact that he had just called her champ, Ayesha chose to address the more important issue. "Who the hell calls someone champ?"

"Look, do you want a training montage or not? Who do you think you are, Rocky Balboa?"

"I—"

"I _knew_ Rocky Balboa, and you, madam, _are no Rocky Balboa_. Look, if you ever want to beat Ronald to gain your rightful place beside Jesus then you need to focus. I was once a pretty snappy guy on the floors of the disco. My moves were off the scale. I was so groovy they invented a new scale. If you want to achieve half of my righteous grooves then you must follow what instructions I give you. Think of me as your fairy godmother."

Ayesha took a moment to follow that particular order and examined him. His hair was slicked back into an artistic quiff, his Italian moustache tastefully quivering with small paste jewels. That tutu wasn't quite fairy godmother material at mid-thigh level, and if he was going to shave his Italian legs he should really do both instead of one. It was somewhat off-putting to have one of them bristling with hair that would probably attack if it was sentient and the other shaved very competently, revealing a slender calf and well-shaped thigh. The sparkly V-neck shirt was more in the right direction, and the purple did go very with the Italian hot pink tutu.

She could make this work if she closed her eyes halfway.

"Now, you must float. Float above the music and go deep within yourself to find that place called… DANCE. Everybody has it, munchkin, you must simply let it come to you and TAKE YOU OVER until you are desperate to hand jive, cannot sit still without wanting to do the YMCA, CANNOT LIVE without wanting to do the moves to that one song that went, 'a-hey, a-ha, big boogie boogie something with me'." He performed each as he said them until the last one, where he appeared to forget how it went and just jigged up and down enthusiastically.

"I don't think there's ever been a song like that," she said critically as he finished.

"No, no, there was. Something to do with ketchup."

"I think you have the wrong song."

They frowned at each other, separated by a grand wall of incomprehension that occurs whenever two people are discussing utterly different songs yet are convinced they are the same thing and incredible confusion arises. This can also happen when discussing people, for example when I genuinely believed that the lead singer of the Pussycat Dolls and Kim Kardashian were the same woman and deeply confused the person I was talking to by insisting that they were the same one. I was grieved to find out I had been labouring under a powerful delusion for many years. (This really happened. Sometimes I wonder how I am still alive.)

"Do you mean the one that went 'Pizza Hut Pizza Hut Kentucky fried chicken and a Pizza Hut'?"

He looked thoughtful, stroking his Italian moustache gently. "You mean they're not the same one?"

She openly stared at him. Then, very slowly, she dropped her head into her hands. "I'm doooomed," she moaned. "I'll never be with Jesus. You are the _worst fairy godmother ever_."

"Steady on," he said, affronted. "We've been at this for about five minutes. We still have an unspecified time left until Friday to get our act together. Haven't you ever seen inspirational sports films? The underdog always wins. We just need some inspirational montage music and maybe headbands or a team shirt or something and we're set. Give me a sec…" He turned away to fiddle with some speakers, flicking through a playlist with his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in a mockery of concentration. "Ooh!" he said after a moment, and nodded decisively.

Slow, morose music slunk out of the speakers. "_Wind was on fiiiire and no-one could save me but you._"

"What," Ayesha said flatly.

_ "Strange what desiiire could maaaake foolish people do_."

"It's Chris Isaak. You don't like Chris Isaak?"

"_I never dreamed that IIII'd meet somebody like youuuu._"

"You _like_ Chris Isaak?"

"_And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody liiiike you._"

"What's wrong with Chris Isaak?"_  
_

"_No, __**IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII**__ don't want to fall in love._"

"Turn that off. Now."

"_No, __**IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII**__ don't want to fall in love—_"

"You have no taste," he said distastefully.

"_—with you—_"All the same, with a heartfelt sigh, he turned it off and flicked through. She didn't trust him to choose the song this time. A horrible thought had occurred to her; what if he was in charge of the music at the dance-off? What if she had to dance to… _this_?

"Well, then, bossy boots, what do you want to listen to?" he asked grumpily, handing her the iPod. She looked at it with vain hope that there would be something listenable in the depths of it.

"You haven't got any Slipknot, have you?"

"The only song I have with 'slip' in it is Slippery People by Talking Heads. Live. We could put that on if you want," he offered nastily, taking back the iPod and cradling it as if it were actually precious.

"This is the worst training montage ever," she said sourly. "I haven't even danced yet."

"I guess you'll just have to rely on your natural talent," he said. He laughed. "Good luck." Then, more seriously, he offered, "Or you could just do the Macarena?" As she began to sink down into the depths of despair he held out his Italian hands and waved them about defensively. "No, for real, I won a competition with freestyling Macarena once. Don't mock the Macarena."

"Sometimes I just—there are no words. No, seriously, I don't want to know. No, no, it's good, I am perfectly happy not knowing." Their idyllic bickering continued, accompanied by the occasional squawk from the iPod when someone would try to play a song. They were completely unaware of the evil creeping up on them in between of the innocent branches of the overgrown trees above their sweet heads. An evil known for seemingly eternity, a plague of epic proportions, a dark threat so dank and horrifying that they were now used for only malicious ends instead of even attempting to hide behind a helpful façade.

The PE assassins, helpfully pointed out by Jayne the Incompetent Prophet in the last chapter in her prophecy, then followed by an irritable joke about how we said we weren't going to have any prophecies about three seconds before. It's okay if you don't remember any of this, it was January.

The duo first realised their presence slightly late upon one of the assassins placing their foot on an untested branch which then snapped, sending this unfortunate soul down much to their targets' surprise right by their feet. In the other trees the rest of the assassins simply groaned at the incompetency of Assassin Bob and dropped silkily and smoothly down to offer their comrade some help, moving into a threatening formation. Spandex creaked hostilely as they moved sinuously. Weapons shone in the weak sunlight menacingly. One of them said "Grr" to add to the general atmosphere.

Assassin Bob appeared momentarily stunned and stared idly up at the sky, making happy noises.

"Are you all right?" Berlusconi asked, concerned and offering a hand to help him up.

"DO NOT TOUCH THE HAND OF THE SACRED ASSASSIN OF THE TIME THAT WAS PHYSICAL EDUCATION," Head Assassin Steve boomed. After a flurry of murmurings on the correctly insulting phrase to use, he added, "OIK." The assassins hissed and swayed threateningly. One of them clapped. Someone threw a dagger with an over-eager giggle-snort. As if the whole world went into slow motion, Ayesha leapt forward so quickly that she brushed past all present almost too quickly to be seen, gliding through the air like a gloriously sharp blade through soft butter. Halfway through this perfect execution of a jump she began to turn, wheeling around like a bird who has suddenly seen a chip, one leg outstretched, reaching its zenith in time to improbably kick the dagger and send it shooting in another direction to land quivering in a nearby tree trunk. She landed on the ground in flawless formation and then casually went back to standing, whistling as if nothing had happened.

"I'm sorry!" one of the assassins cried. "I get over-excited!" They began to weep copiously, sniffling loudly and wiping away their tears with a hankie, knives sewed decoratively around the edge. Presumably someone was making a killing from selling hankies embroidered in this sort of style, as they seemed to be surprisingly prevalent amongst the inhabitants of the school.

The other assassins coughed embarrassedly, giving Head Assassin Steve pleading looks. He went over and patted the over-excitable one on the back, making awkward "THERE, THERE"s in an attempt to soothe the poor assassin. When all this was finished, he turned back to the current heroes and said simply "PREPARE TO MEET YOUR DOOM" in a foghorn baritone. In a much quieter voice he leaned in and said, "Sorry about all the confusion, we haven't mobilised in a while. We'll be much better on the day, all right?"

Berlusconi nodded understandingly and then ducked immediately as he was nearly the recipient of a flying dagger to the head, something he would not have appreciated greatly. "_Rude_," he said indignantly as he straightened up, twirling his Italian moustache upsetly.

"WE ARE ASSASSINS," Head Assassin Steve pointed out helpfully, "SO PREPARE TO DIE."

"And I'm a ninja," Ayesha said, more malevolently than helpfully, "so prepare to become a pincushion!" Berlusconi made a disapproving noise. "What?" she demanded, aggrieved.

"Nothing," he said aloofly. "I am just clearly the source of all the wit and funny jokes in this duo. But no, excuse me, carry on with what you were doing, don't let me get in your way, pincushion away to your heart's content."

Therein followed a glorious battle wherein many people were punctured slightly, leading to lasting scars and severe discomfort for several days. Ayesha whirled about like a tornado, leaving destruction wherever she went, PE assassins discovering that they were somewhat out of shape and should probably take up sport again. She dealt out pincushioning like an angel of death and other similes while Berlusconi watched quite happily from a branch high enough to be out of the action, singing nursery rhymes with Assassin Bob, who appeared to be out of commission for a while.

Eventually, after roughly seventeen minutes the PE assassins retreated, cursing and hurling insults and promises to return with vicious DEATH. About five minutes later one of them slunk back for Assassin Bob quietly, apologising when she thought they weren't looking and shaking her fist and cursing them viciously when she thought they were.

The two sat in the tree, alone again. Each was deep in their thoughts for a long time before anyone stirred and when they did, it was Berlusconi, to suggest "How about learning the Cha Cha Slide?"

* * *

Ayesha entered the room flocked by her Italian mentor, Berlusconi. I wish I didn't have to tell you what they were wearing, but I'm nothing if not thorough, so here goes. Berlusconi was all in white leather and diamantes, the V-neck on his shirt cutting almost all the way down to his navel and flares on his trousers wide enough to house a camp of refugees. (Ooh baby.) Meanwhile, Ayesha was dressed head to toe in eye-gouging colour; hot pink feathers, purple frills, orange sparkles, even her trusty katana had a tasteful pastel blue sheathe. Needless to say, she didn't look very happy about this.

"Remind me again why I had to dress in _this_," she hissed.

"Dance is all about the show, which means it's only 10% actual talent, the rest is all music, lighting and outfits"— he lowered his voice so he was almost talking to himself—"which is a good thing, in your case."

Ayesha shot him a look and jabbed him sharply in the stomach. "Next time I'll use a kunai," she warned.

"Looks like somebody's nervous," he said, smiling smugly.

"Shut up. Let's just find somewhere to sit down and wait," she said, storming across the dark room. Berlusconi followed lightly behind, almost skipping. "And stop being so damned happy!" she huffed, crossing her arms and leaning against a wall sulkily.

"Why? I haven't been to a dance off since I was in Tra— well, you know where."

"Mmhmm, and remember how that ended?"

"Point taken," he said glumly, shutting up and joining her in the scintillating act of waiting. Fortunately, they didn't have to wait long, for Ronald strode into the room seconds later, throwing the doors wide open and stopping to pose for a second in the doorway, his figure a silhouette against the dingy English sunshine. _Un_fortunately, his outfit out-fabulous'd both Berlusconi's and Ayesha's combined. Neon pink hot pants, fishnets, thigh-high black boots and to finish it off, a small black leather crop top that didn't even begin to cover his magnificently sprawling chest hair.

"Oh dear, he must be a professional," Berlusconi said to himself, before smiling encouragingly at Ayesha and pushing her forward onto the dance floor. She stumbled towards Ronald's imposing figure distinctively ungracefully, before straightening up and proceeding to glare at him, trying to look as menacing as she possibly could while wearing a pink tutu. Ronald gave her a dismissive once over before looking towards the ceiling and calling out in a hearty Welsh accent,

"Jesus, my lord! We are gathered here today in your name!"

Jesus peeked in through the doorway and raised a single, perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Why are you all looking up there? I'm not going to fall through the roof." He glided across the room, smiling serenely at those gathered. "Are we all re—"

"I'm not late am I?" a figure asked, bursting through the doors, breathing slightly heavily. "I had to run all the way here."

"Who do we have here?" Jesus asked, looking genuinely confused, along with everyone else in the room. The figure coughed, readjusted her brown wig and straightened up, placing one hand on her hip and drawing out a silver-painted stick.

"I'm Ayesha the ninja of course!" She smirked. "I'm here for the dance competition." She was dressed all in black, and had even wrapped a black scarf around her head. All in all, it wasn't a bad effort, considering.

"Since when do I carry a stick?" Ayesha asked, looking puzzled and quickly checking her weapons supply. No sticks present. She tried to remember if she had ever carried a stick as part of her armoury. She was fairly certain that she hadn't.

"It's not a _stick;_ it's a Katana, obviously."

"Obviously," she replied. "Now really, I'm honoured that you'd impersonate me, but you're not fooling anyone and we're kind of busy." The girl looked about to argue but then caught sight of Ronald's outfit and, making the only sensible choice, ran out of the room, clutching at her eyes. "Actually, on second thoughts, maybe _she _could have taken part in the dance competition instead of me."

"Now, now, my pupil, that would be cheating," Berlusconi tutted, coming up behind her, no doubt to get a better look at Jesus, or possibly so Jesus could get a better look at him.

"Your point?" Berlusconi shook his head and fixed her with a decidedly disapproving look.

"So, are we all ready now?" Jesus asked before yet another fight could break out between the ninja and her mentor. "Good. Ayesha, stand on the pink section of the dance floor, Ronald, stand on the black. Everyone else, please give the contestants adequate room." An awkward moment ensued when everyone tried to shuffle quietly off the dance floor and onto the thin strip of unoccupied floor. Many muted "Sorry"s and "Excuse me"s were uttered and there was much uncomfortable squeezing past people. Finally, Ayesha and Ronald were alone in the centre of the room, facing each other and readying to fight. Ronald signaled a group of his PE assassins who hurried over to the speakers on his side. Ayesha turned round to find Berlusconi was already lounging over hers.

"I'll go first, if you don't mind," Ronald said, motioning for her to back away.

"As you wish, first the worst, second the best," she replied, smirking, as she took a few steps backwards. The music started to play, a thudding, electronic bass that sounded worryingly familiar. "Oh God no," she muttered, putting her head in her hands. Ronald's pelvis started to thrust in time with the beat.

"_Hey dude, hey dude-hey dude..._"

He dropped into the splits, his head moving from side to side, hands running over his body seductively.

"_...hey dude, I was thinking, we could, go do, something dirty-ee-yeah._"

He pushed up into a handstand, his pelvis still thrusting. The words "Gay Pimp" stitched in diamonds onto his hot pants caught the light and sparkled.

"..._Like soccer practice!_"

She watched the rest of the dance in equal parts fear and fascination. How the hell was she going to follow _this? _It was a work of art, a piece of genius. She could barely keep up with the instructions in the Cha Cha Slide. He ended smoothly with an effortless backflip, dropping down to one knee in front of Jesus so his head was just about level with the Lord's crotch. Jesus smiled, just smiled. Somehow that was worse than if he'd just congratulated Ronald. Neither of them moved for several seconds, just looked at each other. Finally, Ayesha couldn't take it anymore and loudly announced,

"Right, if that's all you've got, then I guess it's my turn." She motioned for Berlusconi to start the music. Ronald stood up, disgruntled, and moved reluctantly away from Jesus as the first beats started.

_ "I was walking through the forest of Moccasin Breath…" _

Ayesha looked at the floor, took a deep breath and tried to calm her nerves, waiting for her cue.

_ "Watch me woman!"_

Her head snapped up, then began nodding to the beat as she attempted a somewhat disjointed wave. She leapt into the air, flipping forward and landing in a perfect box-split in time for the chorus, determined to out-do Ronald in at least flexibility.

_ "Watch out for my body rolls!__ High kicks...!"_

She traversed from an arm-wave into a full body roll, kicking as high as she could and making a note to thank Berlusconi later for reminding her to stretch before the competition. She was good, she realised with amazement, but she still had nothing on Ronald, she needed something extra, something special, something with that added "wow-factor". She shot a desperate look around the room for inspiration as she boogied and popped funky grooves and shook that tush. Her gaze fell on her Italian mentor and inspiration struck. Closing her eyes in disbelief that she was even trying this, she signalled to Berlusconi, who hurriedly changed songs.

_ "__hyutiuyikjhjhjhkjlklkgt b Macarena! Sdfghjiuytredfghjk Macarena!"_

Yes, she _Macarena_-_ed_. Her face scrunched up in concentration, every muscle in her body tense, her mind deadly focussed. She was back in the Himalayan Mountains, practicing her ninjutsu endlessly, the movements precise and perfect. As her mind slipped back into her training mentality, she almost subconsciously wandered over to Jesus, grinding against His hips in time to the music.

_ "Heeeeeey Macarena!" _The music faded out and the room was suddenly quiet, only the sound of her and Jesus' breathing was audible. Then, the room exploded in applause, but that didn't matter, she only noticed Jesus' eyes, staring into her own with something akin to love. She opened her mouth to speak, or maybe to kiss Him, but was interrupted by Berlusconi clapping her on the back with enough force to displace a polar bear.

"I told you! I _told _you! Don't knock the Macarena!" he was saying, but she was still staring at Jesus, who smiled and winked, before turning to address the rest of the room.

"The winner is . . . Ayesha!" The room cheered; well, notably except the section of the room occupied by Ronald and his assassins. So, I guess, if you want to be specific, a quarter of the room cheered. 'The next competition shall be a cook-off, for I fed the 5000!" (Or maybe it was 3000? 9000? I forget.) (It's 5,000, idiot.) "It shall take place in D.T 3 tomorrow at 5pm." With that He disappeared. Well, He strolled leisurely out of the Courtyard, waving as He went, damned messiahs don't understand the need for drama anymore.

* * *

"Well, that's a lucky coincidence," Berlusconi pointed out once they were out of the courtyard.

"What is?"

"The cook-off. I'm also an excellent cook, and we'll start lessons tonight."

"I'm not sure "excellent" would be the word I'd use; "creepy" or "mildly scary" might be more appropriate."

"Oh nonsense," he dismissed her concerns, "you should be grateful, Jesus and I used to regularly dine together, I know all his favourite foods."

"Actually, I really didn't want to know that." Now the image of them sitting across a romantic, candlelit dinner wouldn't get out of her head. Though, on closer inspection, she had to admit that it probably wasn't Jesus' style. He probably went more in for teasingly feeding His partner strawberries, or seductively licking ice lollies, or licking chocolate off His partner's body. Now that was an image she _really _didn't want in her head. Jesus and Berlusconi? No. She'd rather not know what had happened between them.

They'd been walking in silence for some while now, and were just entering the tower block when they noticed with horror that the school bell was just about to go for lunch. They exchanged terrified looks and covered their ears with their hands as the piercing ringing started, making a desperate attempt to run for the nearest door, but they didn't make it. Instantly, the corridor was filled with 500 girls, all pushing and shoving to try and be first in the lunch queue. Ayesha surfaced momentarily, casting about frantically for Berlusconi, who was pressed up against a wall, trying to avoid being impaled on the year-7 pegs.

"WELL," she bellowed, "SEE YOU LATER."

"Wait!" he was yelling about something, but oh dear, it was too late she was already too far away what a shame she would just have to go back to her room and take a nap. How tragic.

* * *

Well, this was a surprise.

"You like Mexican?" Berlusconi asked.

"I'd like to know what you're doing inside my room," she said flatly. "Get out of it. You do not belong in my room. The concept of Mexican I enjoy, yes, but you are not Mexican and cannot claim to be in any way, shape or form—"

"Enchiladas?" he slipped in deftly, waving a knife about.

"Enchiladas?" she echoed, eyes on the knife. Her hand went to the throwing stars located at various points around her body. She could gut him before he moved… but what was that about enchiladas?

This seemed to amuse him. He laughed delicately, twirling his moustache elegantly. "Tomatoes, lettuce, cheese_._"

"I have heard of enchiladas and their contents, yes. _What are you doing in my room_?"

Before she could stop him, he strode past her into the complex where she took up residence. At the end of the hall, he steered left, past the master of Sixth Form tolls with a bright smile. As Ayesha barrelled down to follow him, she glared in response to Zahra's friendly wave. He was going to the kitchen… to make enchiladas? Didn't he have somewhere to be? Apparently having made himself at home, he went to the stores first, then browsed their precious fridge, bringing out items here and there—salsa, cheese, lettuce, a tomato. Then he dug through the drawers and found another, bigger knife, waving it around gleefully.

"Now, just back away slowly and put the nice knife down," she said softly, not wanting to spook him.

"Come here. I'll teach you how to make enchiladas." She didn't move. There was a glint to his eyes that made her think that she should be frightened of him… and she was, with that gigantic knife in his hands. But that fright was equal part allure. How _did_ one make enchiladas?

Without a word, she moved beside him. He slid the cutting board in front of her, leaving the knife sitting on top of it. "First," he said, coming behind her and placing his hands on the counter, just outside of hers, "choose your tomato."

"…there's only one tomato," she said, put off by the creepiness of his closeness but not about to miss the illogical present.

He dipped his head so his mouth was at her ear. His breath was warm and smelled somewhat like Haribos, tickling her skin. "Look, just grab the damn tomato, alright? Good. Now pick up the knife."

"Does the chef always stand this close?" she said pointedly.

"When he's revealing culinary secrets, yes. Hold the knife like you mean it."

"Oh, believe me, I am," she said, more pointedly, beginning to raise the knife.

"Um… good," he said, stepping back. He gave her a thorough twice-over, scrutinising any imperfections—his eyes shifted up and down, here and there. For one unnerving moment, she thought she saw a secret smile of approval. "Cooking isn't taught," Berlusconi said. "It's inherent. Either you've got it or you don't. Like chemistry. You think you're ready for chemistry?"

She pressed the knife down through the tomato; it split in two, each half rocking gently on the cutting board. "You tell me," she said, proudly crossing her arms, gathering herself up with all the gravitas of a queen. "I got a fucking A* in my GCSE."

* * *

This was going to be a disaster.

Berlusconi danced into the room, holding something distinctively lacey-looking.

"Oh no. Not again."

"If you're going to cook, you have to wear an apron."

"Way ahead of you." She produced a very plain black apron. "Tada!"

Berlusconi visibly deflated. "But—"

"Nope. Nothing you say is going to convince me, I am _not _wearing lace." She pushed past him and into the hallway, donning her black apron as she went. Berlusconi floated morosely behind. As they neared D.T3 they noticed a strange plastic structure in front of the doorway.

"What is that?' Ayesha asked, staring at the plastic... thing and trying to decide whether to use her sword or her daggers to dismantle it.

"That is the new, state of the art nut-detection device," Hannah informed them from the other side, her voice strong and even, casually tossing pistols in her gentle but tough hands nearly too fast to see.

"What?"

"It's a new, state of the art nut-detection device," she repeated, slightly louder, putting away her pistols in one smooth, beautiful movement that all present sighed with envy to see.

"I can't understand a word she's saying." Ayesha turned to Berlusconi, who shrugged and shook his head.

"She said, 'It's a new, state of art nut-detection device'." The year 7 from the other day told them casually, popping up from the left and waving her jaunty bandana cheerily. "Hi, by the way, I'm a full-time translator now. Gotta pay the bills somehow."

"Good for you," Berlusconi offered smiling, before turning to Hannah, "Why do we need it?"

"Because I'm damn allergic to nuts!" Hannah boomed, her noble face settling into sad anger. She wiped away a single heartfelt tear with her hanky elegantly. This one had nuts being stabbed embroidered across it in a pretty pattern.

"Because she's allergic to nuts," the year 7 translated at a much more reasonable volume. Berlusconi and Ayesha exchanged looks before shrugging and walking through. Ronald was already there, his already sliced ingredients neatly lined up in carefully measured amounts and his oven pre-heated.

"Why am I surprised?" Ayesha muttered, slouching over to her own cooking station and rummaging around in her plastic bag for her seemingly random assortment of ingredients. Jesus appeared moments later, casually sauntering through the doorway, undeterred by even Hannah and her anti-nut protest.

"We ready?" He looked around quickly, as if expecting another interruption. When no-one appeared He smiled. "Then let's begin. You each have 30 minutes. 3, 2, 1, Go!"

Ronald began moving immediately, efficiently mixing and whisking and mashing, all in a disturbingly sensual way, which of course attracted Jesus' attention. Ayesha cursed and grabbed a handful of vegetables, chucking them into the air and, lightning fast, drew her katana, effortlessly slicing and dicing them. They fell onto the chopping board in perfect alignment. She looked up and noticed Jesus was staring at her appraisingly. She opened a draw and grabbed a spoon, shutting it again with a sharp thrust from her hips. Grabbing a bowl she quickly added flour, baking powder, salt and oil and began to stir, undulating her pelvis as she did so. Next, she slowly, slowly poured in a jug of warm milk before sinking her hands into the mixture and beginning to knead, her eyes locked with Jesus'. Once the mixture was firm enough she lifted it out with her hands and gently caressed it as she shaped it into a ball, keeping her gaze on Jesus at all times to make sure He was watching her.

Ronald, seeing this, grabbed a frying pan and soaked it in oil, licking the excess off his fingers. "Mmmm," he murmured, his voice deep. Suddenly, he whacked up the heat, the oil on the pan beginning to boil and spit. "Hot and oily, just how I like it." Jesus' eyes widened and He grinned. Ronald didn't waste the opportunity, quickly throwing a raw sausage onto the frying pan, Jesus winced and let out a small moan of pleasure. _Damn!_ That was it, she needed to step up her game.

Turning on the hob of her own oven she grabbed a sauce pan, adding the vegetables and stirring. Next, she snatched up a handful of red chillies, cutting them up and dropping them in, one at a time, but only after wafting them about her body and nibbling teasingly at the edges of course. "Mmm, spicy. Just how _I _like it," she commented, smirking at Jesus playfully, but directing her words more at Ronald, who flushed bright red in anger and grabbed a bottle of mayonnaise. He gripped it with both hands, flipping the lid open. Half closing his eyes he began to breathe deeply. Then, abruptly, he squeezed, white sauce spraying all over the salad. Jesus was captivated to say the least and Ayesha was not only out of ideas, but also out of time. The bell rung, startling her and almost causing her to drop the plate, Ronald, on the other hand, remained smooth and composed, already knowing he'd won. Jesus came over to her first, biting deeply into the enchilada, sauce trickling down his wrist. Smiling seductively at her, He raised his hand to his mouth, licking it off.

"Mmm, very spicy indeed," He agreed, making her heart flutter. He turned to find Ronald already had a fork prepared with fried Italian sausage and salad. Opening His mouth, He let Ronald feed him. Berlusconi grabbed Ayesha, trying to keep her from beheading the small Welshman on the spot.

"Lord? You have some mayonnaise on your lip," Ronald said. "Here, let me get it for you." He reached forward with one finger, delicately wiping the spot of mayonnaise away. Leaning forward and closing his eyes, he put the finger in his mouth, slowly sucking the sauce off.

"Just let me kill him!" Ayesha hissed at Berlusconi, struggling against his grip.

"No! You know Jesus wouldn't want that," he pointed out. He was right, she knew, but that didn't mean she had to like it.

"The winner of round 2 is Ronald!" Jesus declared. The PE assassins cheered and Ronald smirked triumphantly at Ayesha. God, she was going to kill him. "The next round shall be a Jet-skiing race, for I walked on water. Tomorrow at 11am, by the pond."

"Isn't that a bit small?" Berlusconi pointed out.

"Nonsense, I'm the son of God. I'll sort something out. Don't worry my little Italian muffin," Jesus assured him, winking at them all before leaving.

"Well, that's rather fortunate," Berlusconi said, 'Seeing as I _am _a champion jet ski—"

"No! Just no." Ayesha interrupted hurriedly. "I can jet-ski perfectly well. You do not have to mentor me this time!"

"Are you sure? I really was quite good."

"No! I've had enough of your 'lessons'." She decided firmly, shaking her head and crossing her arms to emphasise her point.

"Oh alright then." Berlusconi allowed, defeated. 'I guess I'll see you tomorrow then, outside the pond?"

"Tomorrow then." She confirmed, walking off with the promising prospect of an evening to herself to look forward to.

(If none of that makes sense, it's because neither of the authors has ever made enchiladas and we're actually still not certain exactly what they are.)

* * *

The air was tense. A crowd had gathered for this momentous occasion, some anxious for the result, some there to see Jesus Son of God, some there just because sellers had turned up out of nowhere with popcorn and silly souvenirs. This inevitably happens with any large gathering of people, regardless of whether the setting is a dystopian school that nobody can escape from or just a fairly sizable spectator event. There were badges available proclaiming who you supported with the usual cringe inducing slogans and a few that just said "CAKE" for some inexplicable reason, balloons, sweets with rather bad edible portraits of the two battling for the Son of God's love and even collector's items.

Nobody had any money and thus incredible feats of thievery were occurring.

Berlusconi had elbowed his way to the front with that tact that allows you to essentially fall on top of people, tread on their toes, accidentally stand on their things and manage to escape with only an irritated glare. He had installed himself right at the front, making room for Judith, who was having trouble sitting down but was making it work. He patted her head absent-mindedly. She whinnied quite happily and took a bite out of someone's hair.

What they had done to the pond was truly impressive. Berlusconi stared with some confusion down at an Olympic sized lake, and looked up to the seating that stretched far up above his head. While this was overkill for a school of say, 1000 girls and assorted staff, it was certainly impressive. He was trying to remember if Jesus had ever turned His hand to decorating and design before. Miracles, healing the sick, turning water into wine were all givens of course, Jesus did those without thinking. He wasn't sure he'd ever heard architecture as one of the Son of God's particular talents.

Lights flickered on in the centre of the lake, wheeling around the stadium and then pointing upwards. An island began to rise there, where a single figure stood with His arms aloft, clad magnificently in white leather. A microphone appeared in his hand and He brought it to His mouth, clearing His throat and then shouting, "ARE YOU REEEEEEADYYYYYY?" The stadium made a half-hearted cough in reply. The figure on the island was significantly put out, judging by how He flapped His arms irritably. "I SAID ARE YOU REEEEEEEEAAAAAADYYY?" He shouted again into the microphone. This time, the stadium erupted in slightly more enthusiastic murmuring. Jesus sighed, a crackle of static echoing painfully over the system. "That'll do," He said, sounding disappointed, scratching at His sparkly beanie cap. "Anyway, race, they're jet-skiing, whoever wins this wins my love, yup."

Berlusconi smiled fondly. Ah, the Lord. Such a penchant for drama. The times that they had spent together, so long ago… He sighed whimsically, waving his "NINJAS DO IT BETTER (DO IT MEANS **SEX **LIKE**SEXUAL INTERCOURSE**)" number one finger in support. That was a long time ago and now he must support Ayesha in her quest for love. This was her last chance and so opposition was going to be fierce. He had already seen several PE assassins lurking about. In fact, he had waved at Assassin Bob, who had been embarrassed and pretended not to see him. That had hurt his feelings.

Two other figures had joined Jesus on the island. There was Ayesha, looking determined in a black wetsuit, and Ronald, looking pretty snazzy in a very tight fitting, eye-blinding turquoise colour. Berlusconi noted, impressed, that there were little jewels sewn into it just to complete the ensemble. Jesus looked fairly impressed as well, giving Ronald a favourable smile. Ayesha started forward, then was interrupted by the arrival of their jet-skis. The race had begun.

The two mounted their jet-skis, glaring fiercely at each other the whole time. Ayesha tried to trip Ronald up on his way to his jet-ski; Ronald nudged away her jet-ski so she had to go after it very quickly to stop it escaping. These altercations continued to escalate as Jesus watched with a fond smile. When it looked like Ayesha was actually going to stab Ronald, He stepped in to quiet them with a quick stroke and pet, a kind smile and one word—"GO."

They were away fast as lightning, or as fast at jet-skis can go, which is probably not quite as quick as lightning, but this was at least pretty fast because both of them were pretty determined to win. Things got dirty quickly, and not in a sexy like sexual intercourse way.

Ronald rammed Ayesha's jet-ski; she moved away at the last moment to stop a strike that probably would have broken her jet-ski. The crowd oohed. Some of them booed. Some of them did something else that rhymes with oohed. Mooed? She sped ahead while Ronald shot to the side, cursing. They had to do three laps, and she was already far ahead, but it was only the first lap. "DON'T SPEND YOURSELF ALL NOW," Berlusconi found himself shouting, despite the fact that he had never ridden a jet-ski. When she shot too far over to the left he smacked his own forehead and groaned despairingly. "You IDIOT, WHAT are DOING you have to take the corners CAREFULLY," he bellowed, getting to his feet. Judith whickered softly and got to her hooves too. There was a wail from behind that trailed into a small whimpering scream which both Berlusconi and Judith ignored utterly, and a few loud irritable murmurs upon finding a unicorn blocking the view of the epic brawl taking place on the lake.

One of them was doing a loop in the air that seemed to break several laws of physics, but then again this was a fight over the love of Jesus, so Berlusconi was prepared to accept strange things. He saw that it was Ayesha and she was going to land right on top of Ronald—who moved at the last minute, face twisted into a scowl of concentration—and she landed with a splash that cost her time, she was behind and Ronald had moved into the lead for the second lap. Jesus waved a flag happily to signify the second lap and as Ronald moved past he rose up on his jet-ski and blew the Son of God a kiss. Berlusconi looked back immediately to see what Ayesha was going to do. She was frowning, recognising that she must do something to compete with Ronald— Hastily, he remembered that he still had the audio from earlier on in the week—he fumbled for it in his pockets, produced it and blasted it just before she was about to pass Jesus.

"_NO WAY NO WAY_…"

"Ah," he said regretfully as it blasted around the stadium. This was unfortunate.

"…_MANAH MANAH, NOT TODAY…_"

People were turning to stare. He sank into his seat, coughing. Ayesha was approaching Jesus just in time for the first verse… lucky her. Berlusconi looked about as if looking for the culprit and then sank further into his chair until only his Italian quiff was visible, quivering with shame.

"…_DON'T GET FRESH WITH ME._" Ayesha was looking very confused, slowing down. This would have been a complete disaster if Ronald hadn't completely stopped, looking suspicious, as if this was an ingenious ploy to defeat him. "_We're always together, never_ _apart_," began to play as the song reached the first verse; "_sisters through and through._" Ronald was looking doubly suspicious now, no doubt in face of the completely inexplicable lyrics.

"…_we can get a kick out of you, __**BOY**_," sang the considerably dreadful girl band as Ayesha sped past Jesus with a befuddled wave. He waved back, looking equally bemused, and shrugged at Ronald, who was still floating about still as if an attack was coming back at moment. The suspicious expression transformed into rage as Ayesha mowed past him, producing an enormous wave that drenched him to the dulcet soundtrack of, "_D'you 'ear what that guy just said to me_?" Ronald bellowed with rage, nearly drowned out by, "_Oh don't tell me. I could have any girl 'ere but it's your lucky night._" The roar of his engine started up again, perfectly accompanied by, "_NO WAY, 'e said that to me _lastweek_._"

Ayesha was racing ahead, apparently unperturbed by her new soundtrack. Ronald was still listening in, his face a mask of mistrustful confusion. "_Well ACTUALLY I fink 'e's kinda sweet_," another woman said, utterly believably and in character over the speakers. Racing around in record time with the scent of victory right up her artistically flared nostrils, Ayesha shot into her third lap with the beautiful voice over of "_YEURGH_".

Ronald made a vicious signal and suddenly five other riders shot onto the lake from nowhere at all; the PE assassins had finally made themselves known! To the unlikely and dying moments of "_MANAH MANAH DON'T GET FRESH WITH ME_" a wild and high power chase began, with Ayesha skilfully evading her opponents and sending two to fiery crashes within a minute. Berlusconi was concerned to note that the first one to crash was Assassin Bob. Perhaps he just wasn't suited to being an assassin and should retire to something less challenging. The remaining three chased her and tried to hedge her in as Ronald caught up faster and faster until they were nearly neck and neck, with the PE assassins weaving dangerously across. Many a time there was nearly a crash but all of them managed to escape at the last moment.

They were coming right up to the finish line. Berlusconi was nearly leaning into the lake with excitement, shouting obscenities and general rude things at the PE assassins and fuckin' Ronald's fuckin' cheating BUTT. In an epic manoeuvre that Berlusconi would remember for the rest of his life, Ayesha powered ahead in the last few seconds to rise up above the water and gently fly across the finish line, unfortunately crashing the jet-ski but gracefully gliding across air into the waiting arms of Jesus Son of God.

Berlusconi wiped away a single emotional tear, and turned to embrace Judith in a heartfelt hug. The whole crowd erupted into a loud cheer, throwing up their souvenirs as Jesus and Ayesha stood there proudly, ignoring Ronald, who had crashed and flown into a tree with muffled curse and was shouting obscenities at them from said tree.

A great victory had been won today.

(If any of that seemed improbable it is because the author has never been on a jet-ski and has no idea how they work.)


End file.
